1.2 - In the (DEAD) Heat of the Night, part 2

Using flashlights are a bad idea, Jack says to himself. The light kills night vision and visibility is limited to what the beams actually shine on. The survivors can’t see the horde of zombies they are running into. The dead, on the other hand, are well aware of them. Like ships guided by lighthouses, they hone in on the three oblivious survivors. Jack leans his forehead against the window sill, closes his eyes. He could open the window, yell out to them, warn them, but his voice will only attract more of the dead. How would that help anyone?

Already, the crowd below grows larger; he can see their silhouettes moving in and out of the shadows. He can hear them staggering from both ends of his street and from the alley of the restaurant across the way.  They moan to each other, signaling that dinner is served. Jack can also hear the footsteps following behind the survivors—three, or maybe four, sets of them. He opens his eyes. Runners.  Those idiots outside don’t stand a chance, Jack says to himself. Those noisy idiots with their flashlights are being chased by Runners—not fast ones, mind you, but still. Runners.

1.1 - In the (DEAD) Heat of the Night

The HVAC stopped working a week ago; power to the building—and to most of the block—had finally gone out, necessitating that the windows be opened during the hotter parts of the afternoon. It’s the tail end of an unseasonably warm October, less than a month since Outbreak, and the vinegar sweet smell of rotting flesh grows stronger every day.

The mid day stench is the worst, even for those whose noses have grown accustomed. The smell enters from the streets below, making its presence known like an inept burglar, who, after making himself at home, strikes up conversations with his victims. At night and in the early morning, the temperature drops—not quite freezing yet, but cold enough to close the windows—and there is respite enough to sleep.

Outside, the dead are restless, moaning their displeasure to each other.

—I know he’s up there.

—Brains!

Jack wakes for the third time. The bedroom is dark, shut in from the moonlight by thick heavy curtains. Not yet three A.M., he estimates. He shivers. Wrapping the blanket around his body tighter and over his head, he curls himself into a ball.

—Personally, I think the Green Party’s got their priorities ass backwards.

Sleep is a rarity these days.